I try. I really do.
And so I made a choice, and I walked backwards through two years of dank, smelly tunnels and opened the door again. And I forgave.
And it blew up in my face.
There's a lot of fear and pain down there. And it bred a desperate, violent sort of recklessness. But I get it. And it never scared me. Still doesn't. In fact, I know how to deal with it, and there was time when I was reveled in the thought of dealing with it, well, forever, I guess. But a light went out and I can't turn it back on. I totally believe that I was hearing the truth. That there was a revelation. You get it now. But it's too late. So. It kills me, but I'm done. I have to be.
Right words, wrong face. That's all I could think while I was speeding up the west side highway in the back of a cab. Right words. Deadly accurate. Wrong eyes. Wrong voice. Throw something. Shout. Cry. Smoke a slow stale cigarette. Shrug it off.